Jaxon Ryder Mercer remembers the exact day, the exact moment that ignited his fighting spirit.
All his life, he had been captivated by mecha anime—towering machines clashing in explosive battles, unleashing pure destruction. Getter Robo, Megas XLR, Gurren Lagann—these shows weren't just entertainment. They were fuel. The Attitude Era of wrestling? That was another spark, setting his Haitian blood ablaze with raw intensity.
Public school only deepened his disdain for humanity. The cruelty, the fakeness—it all made him want to lash out. And the soul-sucking grind of dead-end jobs? That drained any remaining empathy, leaving him with an icy indifference toward hurting others. Loves kids so they get a pass, and he would not hurt women (unless he had to) or old people.
So what was left? The ring.
Jaxon always admired the kind of guys who didn't give a fuck—the ones who thrived on the thrill of battle. Those characters from anime, comics, movies, and games, the ones who lived for the fight, who embodied bloodlust and bravado. Whether they were blood knights or over-the-top warriors, they weren't just fighters. They were alive.
And Jaxon wanted to be just like them.
But reality wasn't a power fantasy. It was relentless.
He wasn't some chosen one, just a barely-above-average guy with no college degree and no motivation to climb the corporate ladder. He was stuck in the grind, suffocating under the weight of two whole paychecks swallowed by rent, a health plan designed to screw him over, insurance bleeding him dry, and utility bills that never let up.
Being poor wouldn't be so bad if it didn't suck so damn much.
But Jaxon wasn't the type to roll over and accept defeat.
His ADHD may have been a bitch, but when he wanted to learn something? He learned. YouTube, online courses, every book he could get his hands on—he devoured it all. And he had brothers, which meant fighting was second nature.
Muay Thai and boxing became his foundation, but he didn't stop there. He picked up Aikido, Hapkido, Wing Chun, Krav Maga, Karate, Savate, Jeet Kun Do, Sambo, Wrestling, and Taekkyeon. Every technique, every style—he studied it. Internalized it.
And when it came to weapons? Star Wars had already given him and his brothers an early crash course in swordplay. Stick fighting came naturally. But he took it further. He learned Kendo, Kenjutsu, HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts), and Filipino Kali. Stick fighting became second nature with Eskrima, Arnis, and Silat sharpening his reflexes.
Jaxon Mercer wasn't a prodigy. He wasn't special.
But he was relentless.
And in a world that never gave him a break, that fighting spirit was all he had left.
Academics was not his passion. Jaxon had always been a little above average when it came to school—never a genius, never top of the class, but never struggling either. He absorbed information well, especially when it interested him. Math, science, and history—he could grasp the concepts with enough effort. Math was his worst, science was okay, and history was good because of Indiana Jones and shows similar to them.
Literature was fine, though he had a preference for the big, dramatic epics over anything too introspective. Philosophy fascinated him, especially the parts about conflict, willpower, and the struggle for meaning. Psychology, too—understanding how people thought and why they did what they did. He always gives the benefit of the doubt to anyone he hasn't met, but Jaxon is not a complete Paragon.
But for all his book smarts, his common sense was atrocious.
Jaxon could explain Newton's laws of motion, but somehow still trip over his own feet or drop his phone without reason. He could analyze the themes of The Prince but not figure out how to properly budget his paycheck. He could tell you the exact physics behind why a punch lands harder when you pivot, yet he'd leave his keys in the fridge without realizing it.
Street smarts? Questionable at best. He could fight, sure, but if you ask him anything illegal that doesn't involve those old cheat code websites from the 90s, you're out of luck.
There were times he'd go into hyper-focus mode, researching obscure historical battles, weapon techniques, or niche scientific concepts just for fun—then immediately forget what day of the week it was. He once spent an entire night reading about medieval siege tactics, only to sleep through his alarm and be late for work the next morning. Priorities? Debatable.
There were times he'd go into hyper-focus mode, researching obscure historical battles, weapon techniques, or niche scientific concepts just for fun—then immediately forget what day of the week it was. He once spent an entire night reading about medieval siege tactics, only to sleep through his alarm and be late for work the next morning. Priorities? Debatable.
ADHD made things worse. If a subject caught his attention, he could lock in for hours, absorbing every detail. But if it bored him? Good luck keeping him focused for more than five minutes.
And then there was overthinking.
Jaxon had the habit of breaking down even the simplest things into absurdly complex scenarios. Choosing a meal? That became a debate on nutritional value versus personal cravings versus cost efficiency. A simple conversation? He'd analyze every word, wondering if he should've phrased something differently.
Heck, even the world of magic, Jaxon learned that too. Meditation was ass to learn, but the breathing techniques were awesome. Yoga was so damn painful; learning about the occult and the supernatural was so damn fun. It made him weirder to normal people, though.
Despite all that, he still loved to learn. The world was filled with knowledge, and he wanted to consume it—even if, sometimes, he lacked the basic awareness to apply it in everyday life.
He wasn't brilliant. He wasn't a fool.
But he was definitely a little offbeat.
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Jaxon walked down the cracked sidewalk, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, a rare grin tugging at his lips. Tonight was the last shift at his miserable job. No more mindless labor, no more soul-draining routines—tomorrow, he stepped into the MMA ring for his test run.
His blood buzzed with excitement. This was it. The start of something real.
Then he heard it—voices in the alley up ahead. A woman's voice, distressed. A group of men laughing.
Jaxon's grin vanished.
He turned the corner without hesitation. Five—no, six guys surrounding two women, one of them backing against a graffiti-covered wall while some asshole with slicked-back hair ran his mouth.
Jaxon didn't stop. He didn't ask questions.
The lead guy barely got a syllable out before a shin crashed into his jaw. His head snapped back, and he crumpled like a house of cards.
The world froze for half a second.
Then chaos erupted.
Jaxon didn't waste breath on threats. He twisted, driving a teep kick into another guy's ribs, sending him stumbling into a pile of garbage. Another swung—sloppy, panicked. Jaxon ducked, grabbed his wrist, and snapped an elbow into his nose. Blood sprayed.
"Run!" he barked at the women without looking back.
They didn't hesitate.
A bottle shattered at his feet. Another guy came at him with a wild haymaker. Jaxon weaved, planted his feet, and threw a tight, brutal right hook. His fist met jaw. Bone met bone. The guy's body hit the pavement before the sound even caught up.
The others hesitated now, looking at each other, at their fallen buddies.
One pulled a knife.
Jaxon rolled his shoulders. "Oh, finally. A challenge."
The guy lunged. Jaxon sidestepped, redirected the wrist, and slammed his forehead into the guy's nose. The knife clattered to the ground. Another bastard rushed him—Jaxon caught him mid-step, twisted, and dumped him on his head with a brutal hip toss.
Three left.
One tried to grab him from behind—bad move. Jaxon dropped his weight, spun out, and blasted an elbow into his ribs before sending him into the wall with a Muay Thai clinch knee.
The last two were desperate now. One threw wild punches—Jaxon parried, countered with a devastating roundhouse kick to the temple, and watched him fold. The last guy? He was already scrambling back, hands up, babbling something about "We didn't mean it!"
Jaxon took a step forward. The guy bolted.
Smart.
A sharp, burning sting bloomed in his side.
Jaxon exhaled, slowly looking down.
A blade.
One of the guys he'd dropped had stabbed him before passing out.
"Tch."
He turned and spotted the last conscious bastard trying to crawl away.
Jaxon staggered forward, grabbed him by the collar, and drove a final punch into his jaw. The guy's body went limp.
The distant wail of sirens filled the air.
Jaxon exhaled, blinking as his vision swam.
The cops arrived, weapons drawn. He held up a bloody hand, nodded at the unconscious bodies around him, and with heavy, lidded eyes muttered,
"…Self-defense."
The world tilted.
Then everything went black.